Do note that in these (somewhat) United States of America my city is among the few in which one can handily get about without a car. So why is it that a car currently dominates much of my emotional life? The answer doubtless lives in my own subconscious. Even without complications, cars pop up in dreams. Driving them seems to represent the course of life itself…in control, out-of-control, able to stop or unable. Whatever. In my more corporeal life, the entire population of San Francisco gets on and off public transport every day…yes, a somewhat misleading statistic…for those numbers include suburban commuters as well as multi-bus/tram changes. Whatever.

Suffice it to say that today was one of those car-dominated days, vehicular destiny looming large from the outset. I haven’t driven for days. And the thought of driving put me in one…a daze, that is. Jane drove us to her church’s weekend retreat. I was relieved to be a passenger. But everything must change, and so this very morning Dennis, my helper, removed the driver’s seat from the van, leaving a space for a wheelchair.

Honestly, it’s not much more then a mile to my bank, but the drive proved nervous and uncomfortable. Implausibly, a parking space opened right on one of the main drags, Mission Street. I seized it, lowered the ramp and joined the pedestrian throngs. The neighborhood remains in flux. My branch of Bank of the West overlooks a Central American street market of sorts. Flowers always at half price. Shiny costume jewelry. Battery-powered toys clamorous with repetitive motion. The bank teller takes my deposit and explains that it’s too large to immediately credit. Okay, I say. The money will pay my San Francisco property tax. For six months. And, I ask him, where shall I have lunch in this neighborhood?

The answer is across the street, everyone’s favorite Salvadoran restaurant. Embarrassed by the scope of my banking, I enjoy a lunch of papusas, two dollars each. Embarrassed by occupying a table for four, I volunteer to move. No, the waitress assures me, you are not a problem. This makes my heart glow ever so slightly. I need to be told this. Several times a day. Of course, there is a slight downside to La Saltaneca’s menu. It takes a long time to appear. While waiting for my food, I do tune into my surroundings. Which in San Francisco is always a good idea, for the latter range from interesting to fascinating, without exception. Here, what I realize is that I am not alone. Just look at this crowd.

Many walk in the door speaking Spanish. And many do so, then switch to flawless English. The ages range from infancy to elderly. The two young women across from me appear to be blond, stay-at-home moms. Their husbands are likely hi-tech professionals. And the moms are comfortably squeezed into a corner, both with babies, chatting merrily. More gringos arrive with rolling luggage…doubtless fresh off the BART subway from the airport, the station being only 100 m away. Two middle-aged Mexican American couples slide into the table next to mine. Everyone says hello. I say hello to everyone.

And if I could, I would apologize for the Berlin Wall, soon to be under construction in the lower Sonoran Desert. The idea is to block illegal papusas. These corn-meal savories are often stuffed with loroco flowers…blossoms pickled and shipped north from El Salvador. No one is going to stop the northward movement of flowers, or the people who have the good sense to eat them…I realize, paying my bill. It’s a small bill. It’s a small price. I head back my car.